


Les Oubliés

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: France meets the doomed souls of the barricades.





	Les Oubliés

**Author's Note:**

> Les Oubliés (French) = The Forgotten Ones
> 
> Warning: Suicide.

Something was going to happen.

The air was tense – all of Paris seemed to stand on edge, to press its ears to the ground in breathless anticipation of it.

But France was no ordinary Parisian. 

He already knew – that slowly, steadily, Paris shuffled towards death.

\---

He met a young woman with old eyes.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” said France, approaching her slowly. When she turned, it was only after ascertaining with a glance that there was no other person whom France could possibly be addressing – her dirty clothes were oversized, swamping her thin body with swathes of yellowed fabric.

" _M'sieur._ ” 

Whatever facet of beauty she’d been born with had been whittled away by years of hunger and living unwanted and unloved. Her eyes were dark, alert, and perhaps a little pained. “ _M'sieur?_ ”

France smiled at her. “Nothing. I was just thinking – you have beautiful eyes, _mademoiselle_. I pray you find love, and hope, and happiness.” He tipped his hat at her, and bowed. “Farewell.”

Her eyes were there, when he walked away – they lingered on his back, counted his fading footsteps, and wandered away once he had vanished.

That was the last time he would ever see Éponine.

\---

Éponine died on the barricades.

Though he’d never know for sure, France had a feeling about it – and being the personification of a nation had always afforded him some level of intuition that he could never quite shake. 

She’d been protecting someone, a friend, perhaps – or her beloved, or someone who was both and neither at the same time. 

It was raining when she died. 

France died a little with her.

\---

He met a child wise beyond his years.

“Is it safe for you to be wandering around alone?” asked France, stooping to address the boy. “What’s your name, young one?”

A huge grin lit up the boy’s face – for a moment, the dust in his hair faded away, and his clothes became a little less tattered. “My name’s Gavroche! I’d say you’ve got better things to worry about than my safety, _m'sieur_. There’s going to be a revolution, you know?”

“Yes, there is,” said France, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. Gavroche pouted at that, and pushed the offending hand away. “I hope you don’t get caught up in it,” continued France. “It’s not a safe place for a boy like you.”

The boy stuck out his tongue. “It’s better to be on the barricades than on the streets,” he said lightly, “at least it’ll matter if you die there.” With a quick movement he slipped from view, and when France turned around the boy was already several metres away. 

“Goodbye!” called Gavroche – by the time France realised that his wallet was missing, the boy had already fled the scene, cackling all the while.

France smiled.

That was the last time he would ever see Gavroche. 

\---

Gavroche died on the barricades.

France wondered which poor, terrible soul had shot the little boy. Perhaps it’d been a simple error, a sudden misfire – or perhaps the boy had been aiding the revolution, merrily stealing ammunition, and a grown soldier felt they had no choice.

But he was dead now. There they were, Éponine and Gavroche – two siblings, both dead on the barricade. France wondered what was left of their family.

France wondered what was left of them.

\---

He met a student who had dedicated his life to him.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” said France, walking towards the young man, “Greetings.” He extended his hand. “I have heard much of you.”

The man frowned at that, casting a suspicious look at him – the expression narrowed his deep blue eyes, and etched lines on his handsome face. “Who are you?”

“No one,” said France, “just a common man, who admires your love for your country.” He smiled, hoping the gesture would make the other man relax – and perhaps it did, for he soon found himself shaking the young man’s hand.

“Thank you,” said the golden-haired revolutionary. “Will you be joining us in liberating France?”

It was odd to hear someone refer to him like that – it always was, but France had gotten used to it over the years, and had learned how to arrange his face so as to avoid arousing suspicion. “Regretfully, no. There are other things that I have to see to. But I do hope,” he said, meeting those passionate blue eyes, “that you stay safe, and that you bear this through with courage and integrity. Farewell, young man.”

When France let go of the other man’s hand, he observed that no attempt was made to stop him – and so he left, silently, wondering how anyone could bear to resist the stirring words of someone so beautiful.

That was the last time he would ever see Enjolras. 

\---

Enjolras died on the barricades.

Even in death, France heard, the young man stood tall, unfazed, and proud. Curled at his ankles, another student named Grantaire was dead too – shot, having declared his support for his Apollo in front of soldiers with raised muskets.

They weren’t even men, France thought suddenly – just boys. They were young, kind boys, who had given their lives up for their love of him.

He smiled through his tears.

If only the world could find space for brave, poor boys like them.

\---

He met a man of the law who knew of little else.

“ _Monsieur l’Inspecteur_ ,” said France, approaching the man. It was nighttime now – overhead, the stars had flung themselves across the black sky like diamonds on dark silk. “A moment of your time, please.”

The police inspector stopped in his tracks – whipping around firmly, the man regarded France with a cool, piercing gaze. “What is it that you require of me, _monsieur_?” His ice-blue eyes glittered in the darkness.

France smiled. “Nothing much,” he said. “I’d just like to enquire about the state of affairs tomorrow. It will be General Lamarque’s funeral procession, will it not?”

The inspector nodded. 

“Is there a chance that there might be some…unpleasantness in the streets?” asked France. “Anything that I should be worried about?”

A short bark of a laugh escaped the man’s lips. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice cold, “but it will not last long. The law will catch up to them soon enough.” He stepped decisively forward. “There is no escape. Those revolutionaries will learn the meaning of the law – they will be brought to justice.” 

A contemplative silence fell over them for a moment – then the inspector frowned. “But perhaps you should stay at home for the day, _monsieur_ ,” he said. “If there is unrest, it is best for you to avoid it. We will do our best to protect you – you all.”

France inclined his head. “Thank you, _Monsieur l’Inspecteur_ ,” he said. “And – thank you, again.”

“Again?” said the man, raising his eyebrows in confusion. “What for?” 

“Protecting the streets of Paris,” said France. “Thank you, good _monsieur_ , for doing your duty, and keeping us all safe.” He watched as the hard lines of the inspector’s face softened in surprise. “Farewell,” said France, turning to leave.

That was the last time he would ever see Inspector Javert.

\---

Javert did not die on the barricades.

Yet eventually he’d wandered to the Seine – and his body was discovered in its crashing depths, battered and unrecognisable except for its uniform.

France wondered what the inspector had been thinking as he stood there, staring down into the darkness; as the swelling Seine swirled and beckoned beneath him. A man like Javert did not simply give in to despair – yet perhaps he’d looked up to see an empty, starless sky, and struggled to grasp at a world that was falling to pieces before his very eyes.

Then he’d looked down again, into death’s foaming face; and he’d let himself fall.

France wished he’d been there to save the man from damning himself.

\---

They all died.

France had known – had always known, that the four he spoke to that day would not survive till the weekend. 

It was only right to know them, at least a little, before they were gone forever; to remember their names, and speak them when the world had forgotten.

That was his role.

For he was France, and he would always be their country.


End file.
